(no subject)
empty spaces
as soon as the door shuts
the loneliness sets in
eyes scan for movement, shadows moving
endlessly up and down the wall
from traffic and people
and life, so astounding that it translates
as changes in thickness and texture of light
along the empty white apartment walls
i hear the sound of my own breathing
and i want to run away from it
put as much distance between myself and
well, myself.
sleep is a hot sickness
a swirling burlesque of dreams and sheets that fly madly
oceans and cities of things i cannot make sense of
filth and betrayal, flight, and love
i want to tell you the truth
i want to pull the cork from the bottle and let those words
the ones i am not ashamed of, to be released from me
to settle in the palm of your hand.
it has to be a production with you
something real
something you can put in a jar and stow for safekeeping
you always win me with your hotheadedness
and that smile. the one that i think about sometimes when i cross
that space between the ground and the steps that lead to my apartment
where once we lounged in hopes that
nothing of great importance would pass us by
and through the pieces of myself i showed you
and the pieces of yourself you showed me
we became mirror images
transformed in a transcendental tragedy of each other
whose empty spaces overlapped
in such a way that we couldn't even
see them at all when looking from a distance
as soon as the door shuts
the loneliness sets in
eyes scan for movement, shadows moving
endlessly up and down the wall
from traffic and people
and life, so astounding that it translates
as changes in thickness and texture of light
along the empty white apartment walls
i hear the sound of my own breathing
and i want to run away from it
put as much distance between myself and
well, myself.
sleep is a hot sickness
a swirling burlesque of dreams and sheets that fly madly
oceans and cities of things i cannot make sense of
filth and betrayal, flight, and love
i want to tell you the truth
i want to pull the cork from the bottle and let those words
the ones i am not ashamed of, to be released from me
to settle in the palm of your hand.
it has to be a production with you
something real
something you can put in a jar and stow for safekeeping
you always win me with your hotheadedness
and that smile. the one that i think about sometimes when i cross
that space between the ground and the steps that lead to my apartment
where once we lounged in hopes that
nothing of great importance would pass us by
and through the pieces of myself i showed you
and the pieces of yourself you showed me
we became mirror images
transformed in a transcendental tragedy of each other
whose empty spaces overlapped
in such a way that we couldn't even
see them at all when looking from a distance